Chapter 3674: The Mercury Age (V)

Schiller did not try to convince Peter, because Peter wasn't suffering through hardship unnecessarily, nor was he being overly frugal; this was simply how American white people were. It was as if they had completely regressed their taste buds during the long industrial age. They could tell if a dish tasted "good," but the threshold for what they considered "bad" was shockingly low. This caused the median standard for food to be dragged down severely, to the point where the daily diet of most people was considered inedible by those from other continents.

They also placed an extraordinary lack of importance on the act of eating. Breakfast and lunch were both just two bites to get by—purely "survival meals" that killed one's appetite just by looking at them.

Logically speaking, since Peter had been eating at Schiller's place since high school, his palate should have been refined. But in reality, after graduating college, he didn't care at all about gnawing on dry bread in the lab. Although he loved the grand meals Schiller cooked, he ate frozen food and pre-made meals with equal gusto.

In contrast, Xu Shangqi ranted wildly about "white people food" on his short-video account. One could tell from his content that he was high-spirited when visiting Hong Kong, but like a walking corpse when returning to the U. S. Most of his short videos in America were filmed in a state of starvation-induced delirium.

Never mind the high income here; you need time to go out to restaurants. When busy, the only thing to grab is the horrific "white people food"—one bite and you're speechless.

Schiller had at least studied in the U. S. in his previous life and lived here for quite a while, so he understood this. For Xu Shangqi, a pure-blooded Chinese person who had never left his home country before crossing over to America, this was practically a life sentence. If he hadn't been able to transfer to work in Asia, he would have essentially been serving a prison term.

Considering the difference between these two, Schiller could only attribute it to a genetic gap. It seemed white people's taste buds just weren't as sensitive. But he was also puzzled: if that were the case, how did one explain Italian and Spanish cuisine?

Schiller bought fresh asparagus, artichokes, lettuce, and olive greens here, then bought some tomatoes for making tomato sauce, fresh beef, two dozen eggs, and finally, various plums, as he planned to make the sour plum sauce for the roast goose himself.

Peter, as he had said, didn't spend a single cent here, and when he saw the numbers jumping on the screen at checkout, he was terrified, eventually turning his head away to avoid looking.

The vegetables here were indeed very expensive—Schiller couldn't deny that—but the quality was naturally excellent. Everything was fresh, even the eggs were better than elsewhere, and the beef was visibly high-quality. Spending a little money was fine; he considered it an investment in his own mental health.

After finishing the shopping, Schiller realized it was too early to meet the middleman for the poultry. So Peter suggested, "Let's go check out the supermarket my aunt usually goes to! They have some good stuff there too. Doctor, maybe you could buy some daily necessities or something."

Schiller thought about it and agreed. He wouldn't go to a high-end supermarket to be a sucker for daily necessities like toilet paper; naturally, the cheaper, the better.

Thus, Schiller followed Peter's navigation and drove to a supermarket in Queens. Despite the early hour, it was the weekend, and the parking lot was nearly full. It took them quite a while to find a spot.

"Parking is tough here," Peter said. "My uncle usually parks in a small alley east of the previous block, then we walk over. That's why my aunt needs a small cart."

They walked in together. The decor was clearly not as nice as the previous one, but it was lively. All sorts of customers were pushing carts back and forth; most were family units: a big kid sitting in the cart, a smaller one in their arms, and even three generations of a family gathered around a shelf, studying prices.

Peter needed to buy ingredients for the raspberry pie, so Schiller followed him, taking the opportunity to observe the prices at this mass-market supermarket. Queens' cost of living was much lower than Manhattan's and even lower than the suburbs where Schiller originally lived, making it the most affordable place to live.

Upon entering, Schiller's eyes were opened. There were two long rows of refrigerated cabinets against the wall dedicated to frozen food. Looking at the dazzling array of frozen goods, Schiller had to admit his previous bias might have been narrow-minded, as he discovered quite a few were Chinese-made—typical Chinese dishes.

Schiller knew China was busy building high-speed rail in the sky—the space-trains were much faster than ground ones, basically like horizontal rockets—and trade between the two sides was growing year by year, but he hadn't expected it to reach the food sector so quickly.

Schiller saw sweet and sour pork ribs, braised sea cucumber, Hainanese chicken, claypot rice, and spicy chicken in the frozen section. These were clearly not "Americanized Chinese food," and many were quite troublesome to make from scratch. Schiller couldn't help but pick up two boxes to look at, and the more he looked, the more tempted he became.

These frozen Chinese meals were indeed more expensive than frozen fast food, but because fast food was so cheap, these pre-made frozen dishes weren't particularly pricey—at least much cheaper than Chinese restaurants. Some dishes weren't even available in Chinese restaurants, making Schiller's mouth water.

Thus, by the time Peter returned with his baking powder and fruit, Schiller's cart was already piled high.

"Doctor, why are you buying so much again? Didn't you say you don't like eating frozen food?"

"That's a different matter," Schiller shook his head. "This is Chinese food; it's definitely much better than some frozen pizza."

"But the portions are small, the price is high, and it doesn't seem to have as much energy," Peter picked up a few boxes to look at. "And imported goods don't accumulate points, so it's not really cost-effective."

Schiller didn't care; he stacked the boxes of frozen Chinese food neatly, very satisfied, and said, "The era's dividends have finally fallen on me. If these taste good, I'll top up a membership card..."

They also went to the daily necessities section to buy toilet paper, paper towels, dish sponges, and the like. Schiller observed that the prices for these daily consumables weren't too high and could accumulate points, which was quite a bargain.

While being next to Central Park was nice, Queens wasn't bad at all. Schiller felt that if the clinic had to move again in the future, he'd move to Queens.

The only downside was that Queens was too crowded. Schiller encountered quite a few fans asking for autographs while shopping, which delayed them for a long time, nearly making him miss his appointment.

They drove to Eighth Avenue in Brooklyn. Schiller usually bought seasonings and such at a large Chinese supermarket there, and the supplier he knew who sold geese and ducks also lived in this area.

They drove to the vicinity, then wound through several alleys before finally stopping at the end of a small lane next to a wall piled with trash.

During the winding drive, Peter's expression grew complex. Upon seeing the wall with a hole in it, he clutched his forehead and sighed.

"Doctor, are you sure you're here to buy ingredients???" Peter looked at Schiller, full of confusion. "Why does this look like a contraband deal???"

"In a sense, it is contraband," Schiller shrugged. "This is a goose and duck the owner raised at home. I'm certain he doesn't have a farming permit, and he definitely hasn't paid taxes, perfectly fitting the standard of 'illegal and not circulating in the normal market.' Plus, I ordered some medicinal herbs for removing the gamey smell, which definitely didn't come through normal import channels."

"I'm just marveling at this," Peter gave a thumbs up. "If people of other ethnicities had this ability to dodge customs and the IRS, they'd use it to sell drugs, but the Chinese use it to eat."

"Don't be silly, Peter," Schiller took cash out of his pocket and said, "Don't you know that the biggest money-laundering organization in New York is Chinese restaurants? This is a model that three generations of presidents haven't been able to touch."

Schiller rolled the cash into a scroll and passed it through the hole. The person on the other side said something in Cantonese, and Schiller replied in Mandarin. After receiving the cash, the person pushed two large black plastic bags through the hole. Schiller checked them, tied the bags tighter, and passed the rest of the cash through. The person gave an "OK" sign through the hole, and Schiller walked away with the bags.

"I hope we don't get pulled over on the way back," Peter crossed himself. "If I were a cop and saw these two black plastic bags, I'd definitely draw my gun."

"What are you thinking? I'm not just going to carry these two things back like this. Come on, let's find a restaurant to process them."

Peter was confused again, but Schiller, familiar with the area, led him around a corner and into a Chinese restaurant.

Schiller knew the owner here; he greeted him, handed over the black plastic bags, and said, "Just pluck the feathers and clean them; don't blanch them, I'm making roast goose."

The owner laughed, said a few words in dialect, and took them to the back kitchen. Schiller turned to Peter and asked, "You didn't eat breakfast, right? Let's have lunch here first and try the food tonight."

Peter had been starving for a long time; his eyes were glued to the white-washed menu on the wall, and he skillfully ordered several dishes with an English-accented Cantonese.

While waiting for the poultry to be processed, Schiller helped the owner's nephew, who was visiting from China for the summer, with his English. It was supposed to be a simple grammar lesson, but the boy's textbook had a test paper tucked inside. Peter and Pikachu excitedly started working on it, only to end up completely baffled.

Schiller glanced at the paper and saw it was from a bilingual international school in Shanghai, so he didn't stop them. As a result, a few questions from the kid left Peter, a native-born American, full of question marks.

After all, Peter had attended a very ordinary public high school; while he was brilliant at scientific research, he hadn't specifically studied English grammar. Many concepts regarding roots and affixes, in particular, were derived from other languages and couldn't be explained in a moment.

Fortunately, just as the boy and the mouse were scratching their heads, the food arrived. Peter used eating to skillfully mask his embarrassment. Schiller looked at his phone's group chat; he hadn't checked it all morning, and there were already hundreds of messages in the "Long Live Singledom" group. S. H. I. E. L. D. agents really didn't do any work at all.

(End of chapter)